


Tilting at Windmills

by ThisShitMakesMeHard (Face_of_Poe)



Category: Justified
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/ThisShitMakesMeHard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Gutterson doesn't know how to shoot a basketball, but he's got some skill at a few other sports. </p>
<p>This will, however, be the last time the office chooses mini-golf as their community bonding activity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilting at Windmills

“Tim,” Raylan’s voice was low in his ear, “take the shot.”

“Dude. Back up. You’re killing my focus.”

“The fate of the world is not resting on this. Take the damn shot.”

“It’s a tricky one,” he bemoaned while reassessing his angles.

Raylan sighed. “It’s supposed to be tricky.”

“There’s a fucking wall in the way.”

“That’s why it’s a par three.”

“The eighteenth hole has a goddamned windmill. Like we’re in fucking Holland.”

“Quixotic.”

“Do these people even golf?”

“It’s not golf, it’s putt-putt.”

“Which is more commonly known as _mini-golf_ ,” Tim countered snidely.

Raylan put his head in his hands. “At least let Rachel go so the rest of us can move ahead?”

Tim finally swings his putter and banks the ball off one of the rails. It ricochets perfectly for a hole-in-one.

Another one.

“Par three my ass,” he muttered, waving Rachel on for her turn.

X---X

Raylan, Rachel, and Art sit on a low brick wall outside the store where they paid for the game an excruciatingly long time ago. Art looks off in the distance absently towards some ominous dark clouds, while Rachel and Raylan argue over whether there’s anyway in hell Tim can manage to ace the last two holes.

For now, he’s still back on the twelfth.

Raylan finally gets antsy though and whines, “Can’t we just go? He won’t care. We’ll save him a beer.”

Rachel looks up from the scorecard where she’s absently doodling with the tiny pencil, expression a bit hopeful, but Art shakes his head firmly. “No, we’re going to wait right here. We’re here to bond. Support our own. All that shit HR loves.”

“Art, there’s a storm rolling in.”

“Exactly.”

Rachel and Raylan exchange a bemused glance. “Sir?” Rachel prods.

“Figure Tim’ll still have the last few holes when the front really sweeps in about, oh, ten minutes from now.” He points to where Tim is flat on his stomach at the thirteenth hole, staring down the green with all the intensity of lining up a rifle shot. “Wanna see if he starts factoring wind speed.”

Raylan settles back in to wait. The beer will keep.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of Tim being hilariously focused playing putt-putt occurred while writing another story, but I decided it deserved a drabble on its own. Hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing.


End file.
